Abstergo
by Neitherworld
Summary: Of course he remembered. He remembered a lot of things about his past, but he always tried to forget them. He couldn't of course... 'Can't get away,' she says softly, a sad smile tugging at her lips. Based off of something Desmond says about his past in AC:R! Oneshot.


**EDIT: fixed a few capitalization problems and overuse of the word 'dear'.**

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He stands on the tips of his toes as he reaches, fingers spread wide, for the bottle that is just out of his reach. His whole body aches with dull pain; his head pounds while his face flushes red. He's tired and aching. It's been a long day of training: running, fighting, climbing; the works. He hungers for food, but for now, all he wants is what eludes him at this very moment.

He's already taller than many of the kids he knows. Not all. The ones who are slightly older than him still tower above him, though, not as much as they had once before.

His mother likes to tell him that one day he is going to be a tall, strong, strapping young man, just like his father. He tells his mom in return that he thinks she is strong too, but normally she'd just laugh and say, 'I know, dear, but I am far from being tall or a strapping young man, unlike your father.'

And it's true. He is getting much closer to his mother's height as the years pass, though she too still seems so much taller himself.

Finally, he feels his hand grip the cool plastic of the small bottle. Bringing the pill bottle down close to him as he relaxes onto his flat feet, he unscrews the cap in one fluid motion, and reaps his spoils.

He downs two ibuprofen with a swig of well water, hoping that it'll act fast. He's only recently started any sort of serious training, but already he doesn't like it. His father is too strict; too forceful for his liking. It's difficult and, truth be told, he is afraid. Afraid of his father, afraid of the other adults training him, afraid of the other trainees – all whom of which seem stronger even if they are shorter, and afraid of why he is training.

But still, he is a good son, and he presses on, blindly following what his parents tell him to do. They've told him, albeit vaguely, time and time again why.

The Templars.

They are the reason for their way of life. They are assassins, and they oppose the Templars. They are the good in the darkness; a yin yang to the Templars. They are the heroes, as he likes to think, and that alone makes him keep the benefit of a doubt for a little while longer.

His eyes, golden brown like the feathers on an eagle, float over the text covering the label of the container. He's waiting for the pills to kick in, and doesn't feel like confronting anyone yet. He moves his finger – dirty with a nail blunt from working with them – to read some more words underneath.

Something catches his eye, and he pauses for a moment from his lazed reading.

_Abstergo._

He rereads the part, which informs him that the company that makes the pain killers is owned by Abstergo. He's never heard of the company before, though to be frank he is not familiar with many companies at all.

Still something about the name seems familiar even if he is sure he's never seen it before. Often times, he likes to ask about the world beyond; places that he isn't allowed to go but he knows others, including his parents, have been to.

'Sore, dear?' He nearly jumps at the sound of his mother's voice. Glancing over at her, he gives a small smile. He likes her voice. It's so different from his father's; it's warm and sweet like honey, unlike the strict but grudgingly loving tones he gets from the other male in his family. However, they both seem to have this distinct demanding tone to them, much like if they were teachers. They do not have complete control over him, but from just their voices he can tell that they are aiming to get some kind of respect and cooperation; of which he tries to his best to give.

'A bit. Do we really have to train this much?' he asks, staring at the pill bottle again.

His mother gives a smile of her own. 'Of course we do. We want you to know how to protect not only yourself, but others, as well. It is extremely important.'

'I see,' he pauses, because he really doesn't, 'but…'

'But what, hun?' his mother inquires as she moves from the doorway into the kitchen. Her hair is messy and her face is smudged with some dirt; she was most likely outside in one of the gardens.

He wants to bring up his suspicions; his doubts about what they are really doing out here, in the middle of nowhere, and his doubts about this so called war. They're always ready to move at the drop of a hat, yet in his short life, they've never even come close to needing to.

What was the point of this all?

But he bites his tongue, and says nothing. He does not want his parents to feel bad, to feel like they've failed at this or that; or suspect him as turning against their community. He loves them of course, but he can't help the doubt that creeps into his mind, like a cat hiding in the shadows.

'Dear?'

His mother places a gloved hand into his shoulder. The material is rough; course with time and use. He just shakes his head a bit; glad to see the pain has subsided.

'This… this bottle,' he begins, hoping to change the subject, 'it says it was made by a company called Abstergo. Do you know who Abstergo is?' He is only mildly curious, but he knows his mother will bother him until he says something.

He hands it over to her, as she looks at it in silence. Then, she gives a light hearted laugh. It's the kind of laugh that always made him feel safe and happy; but today, it arrives with an edge of something else that he cannot place. It's unfamiliar and he's not sure what to make of it.

'Can't get away,' she says softly, a sad smile tugging at her lips.

'Is something wrong, mom?'

'Oh, dear, it's just that… you know those men we've told you about?' And he does. He knows less than he'd like to, but he does.

'The Templars?' His brow furrows in confusion. What do Templars have to do with pain killers and the companies that own the products?

'Yes,' she coos softly as she turns the bottle over in her hands, listening to the sounds of the pill moving around inside. 'Absertgo is a group of Templars, who have managed to find not only a way into the lives of countless people with their products, but also a way to fund their conquest for power.'

He nods a bit, taking it in. With that sign, his mother continues on speaking. 'A common household has about three dozen Abstergo owned products. It's not a surprise that one managed to slip into the farm.'

She turns and hands the bottle back to him, which is her way of saying he has to put it back where it belongs.

'Now, wash up for dinner,' she tells him, tapping him lightly on the nose. He frowns, fighting to hide the smile forming on his lips as he scrunches up his face.

'You're gonna get me all dirty,' he mutters, as his mother turns to leave.

When she is gone, he looks back at the bottle. He'd never been able to a face to their enemy until now. Before, he had tried, but everything that came to mind when he heard the word Templar seemed too… story-bookish.

Perhaps, if he had been more cynical from the test of time, he would have laughed. After all, now all he would think of when someone brought up their enemy, the very group of people causing the world so much apparent pain, was a bottle of pain killers. But he was not cynical; he was merely an eleven year old boy.

Eleven; the same age Altaïr had been when he cried out for his father, Umar, as Umar was executed in front of his eyes.

But he doesn't know this, not yet, nor does it matter to him yet. For he is not Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. No. He is Desmond Miles, and he does not know of the real tragedies in the world, though one day he may. He grows bored with each war story, but it isn't until later that he feels the weight of them all.

Even as a man, now twenty-five years of age, he still thinks of that one bottle of pain killers, and wonders how things could have gone differently. What if he had known what he knows now? About Altaïr and Ezio and Connor, about the harsh reality of the Templars and the Assassins?

But he did not know. He knows now, and he figures that is the best it's ever going to be. And he, Desmond, knows better than anyone that you cannot change the past. So, he tries his best to move on, wishing he could forget and relive his old life at the same time. The past doesn't matter, he knows this as well. All that matters is the present, and from there the future.

For he is Desmond Miles, and he is an Assassin.


End file.
